the dust. "I reckon you know the hoss thet made them?"

"Gene Stewart's roan, or I'm a son-of-a-gun!" exclaimed
Stillwell, and he dropped heavily to his knees and began to
scrutinize the tracks. "My eyes are sure pore; but, Nels, they
ain't fresh."

"I reckon them tracks was made early yesterday mornin'."

"Wal, what if they was?" Stillwell looked at his cowboy. "It's
sure as thet red nose of yourn Gene wasn't ridin' the roan."

"Who's sayin' he was? Bill, its more 'n your eyes thet's gettin'
old. Jest foller them tracks. Come on."

Stillwell walked slowly, with his head bent, muttering to
himself. Some thirty paces or more from the camp-fire he stopped
short and again flopped to his knees. Then he crawled about,
evidently examining horse tracks.

"Nels, whoever was straddlin' Stewart's hoss met somebody. An'
they hauled up a bit, but didn't git down."

"Tolerable good for you, Bill, thet reasonin'," replied the
cowboy.

Stillwell presently got up and walked swiftly to the left for
some rods, halted, and faced toward the southwest, then retraced
his steps. He looked at the imperturbable cowboy.